


A Different Burden

by Miss M (missm)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Riding, Table Sex, Uniform Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-26 16:59:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3858148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valjean's gaze was still on him, warm, tender, heated; there was not a shade of doubt in it, and again Javert could do nothing but bow to this gift, accept it with trembling hands and a gratitude that could and should be expressed by passion only.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Different Burden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).



> A sequel to [this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2602916), but there's no need to have read that one -- basically Valjean wearing his National Guard uniform gets Javert hot and bothered (and then sex ensues), and this is more of the same, really.

It was once again time for Valjean to do his duty and don his uniform for his yearly practice with the National Guard. Javert had arranged to come meet him after work; arriving a bit early, he took a stand outside the gates leading into the courtyard and waited there. 

Through the gates came the sounds of an officer's shouted commands and of guns being fired, and Javert proudly thought that surely no one in the Guard could be a better shot than Valjean, though Valjean himself, if asked, would never admit it. Neither would Valjean turn that skill towards taking anyone's life, wearing the King's uniform or not, but the King did not have to know that; and Javert still maintained that resuming his place in the Guard was a very sensible thing for Valjean to do, also if it meant having to have a new uniform tailored -- and worn. An inconvenience for Valjean, but certainly worth it, Javert thought, rather pleased with himself.

Presently the gunfire was ceasing: the exercise must be close to finishing. Soon the first guards were appearing on the other side of the grilled gate, obviously waiting to be dismissed.

Javert stood calm with his hands on his back, watching them idly. Before, his gaze would have swept over the uniformed bodies with an interest he would have told himself was mere pleasure in seeing the orderly lines of trustworthy citizens, authority wielding strength. Deep down, however, he had always been aware of his nature, the strange quirk that he had taken to be another token of his place outside society. Eyeing a pair of broad shoulders or strong legs, a well-built chest, narrow hips -- at Toulon he had been disgusted with himself every time he had looked at convicts that way, which had happened more than once during those first years when he had still been a very young man. Later, he had learned how to avert his gaze, to lock down his desires and keep them in check, and if any man caught his eye from then on, be it magistrate or thief, he would attribute it to either admiration or suspicion and carefully think no more of it. 

But now there was no more room for lies, just as there was no more need for his eyes to wander over strangers or for his hands to furtively seek relief under the blankets at night when it could not be helped. Again he let his gaze slide over the crowd, in search of the one he was waiting for -- the only one that mattered, he thought, warmth spreading in his chest. There amongst all the other men, some of whom were a third of his age, was Jean Valjean, who could wield a gun like a sniper, who could lift a horse and climb like a cat, who wouldn't hurt anyone on God's green earth. Jean Valjean, who had opened his arms and his bed and his heart to him when he deserved it least of all; Jean Valjean, whose smile was the greatest gift Javert could ask for in this world. 

He had to smile somewhat at his own besotted self. A strange thing indeed, that this quirk of his nature should have turned out such a blessing in the end. And to think there was so much joy to be had this late in life, after everything which had gone before! But there was the wonder of it, that his happiness was not by any means a just reward, but a blessing, a gift, something he would never have thought to ask for but had still received. And if this happiness had to be at least somewhat concealed -- if he could do no more than steal glances at Valjean on their walks through the city, if it could not be known to the world that he was Valjean's in every way, just as Valjean was his -- it remained the truth nonetheless, a secret to be carried and protected deep within his heart. 

Javert resisted the urge to drum his fingers on the nearby wall as he waited. No reason to be impatient, he told himself. Waiting was a blessing in its own right, allowing him to properly savour the knowledge that afterwards, he would be the one to take Valjean home, and he would be the one to unbutton the uniform and push it off those strong shoulders, to kiss his mouth and lick his skin and learn the taste of him all over.

An involuntary shiver ran through him, and he shifted on his feet. Indeed, there was pleasure to be found in the pain of waiting, of envisioning Valjean's every touch, his every moan, his every sigh...

The gates were opened. Javert straightened. When he finally caught sight of Valjean in the crowd of men emerging, he had to smile at himself again. One would think they had not seen each other for years, rather than hours, judging from the way his heart was beating.

Over there at the gate, Valjean looked up and met his eyes. Even at a distance Javert could see his face light up in a smile -- and this very fact, that seeing him should bring Jean Valjean joy rather than fear, struck Javert almost as hard as the smile itself, and he thought he would never get used to either. His eyes roamed over Valjean's figure hungrily, and he shifted again, reminding himself that they were far from home still. 

Valjean nodded stiffly to the officer signing him off, making his way out of the gate with obvious relief. He ignored the men around him completely, and again Javert felt that flare of pride at knowing he had something of Valjean that no one else, not even the girl Valjean cared for as his own, would ever possess. In this there was always a vague hint of guilt as well -- who knew what Valjean's life might have been like, had it taken a different path? Perhaps he would have had a family, children of his own, someone to love him more aptly than Javert ever could; although, Javert thought with some defiance, they could hardly have loved him more. 

But such ideas were futile whichever way one looked at it, and Javert was nothing if not a practical man: after all, the past could not be changed, so better to deal with the here and now. And here and now, Valjean was approaching him, all Javert's to gaze at, his new uniform matched by shining black boots. Javert eyed him hungrily, taking note that the exercise did not seem to have worn Valjean out by any means. 

Valjean stopped in front of him. They shook hands, which was as much as they would do in public, but there was nothing impersonal to the feeling of holding Valjean's hand in his own, if only for a moment. It was strange to think there had been a time when touching Valjean hadn't filled him with such anticipation, though it was an anticipation born of knowledge, not easily stifled.

He might have believed once, naively, that having this thirst indulged would be enough to quench it: not so. Every time they came together, he wanted it more than the last time, craved Valjean's touch more than anything, and he could only thank the Heaven that had seen fit to save a sinner like him that Valjean wanted him as well, that Valjean would not only consent to Javert's touch but enjoy it. That he could make Valjean shiver and moan, arch his back and close his eyes in delicious agony --

"You don't look all that tired," he said, wilfully forcing his thoughts away from those tempting images as they started making their way towards the Rue Plumet. "They did not drive you too hard, then?"

"I've had worse," Valjean said. Then a slight flush crept over his face; he snuck a glance sideways at Javert, almost apologetically. As if _he_ were the one who should be ashamed at such a casual allusion to their past, Javert thought with the familiar mixture of exasperation and love and guilt. It was so easy for them both to disturb that equilibrium, to frighten one another, rendering each other awkward and silent -- though he had learned, whenever it happened, that a touch could bridge the gulf where words could not. And so he touched Valjean's arm, very softly, in apology and reassurance both, and when Valjean glanced at him this time, it was with relief. Javert could not have said which of them was the first to smile.

"I'm glad you're not exhausted," he said softly, lightly caressing Valjean's arm once more. What an indulgence, to be able to touch him like this, and in public no less -- but then again, who except for Valjean would look at him and see anything but neat, prim Javert, slavishly devoted to his work and nothing else? How could anyone passing them in the street know the significance of such a light touch? It was their secret to keep and theirs alone; yet he felt in moments like these that it was plain for the whole world to see, that all his longings and all his desires were written on his face, as if Valjean could strip him naked and vulnerable with a mere look. 

Valjean turned his head at Javert's comment. He reached out, just as lightly, to brush Javert's hand with his fingers -- and oh, what a thrill that touch gave him and how sweet the awareness that Valjean could read his mind, and shared it. 

Soon they'd entered the small garden at the Rue Plumet. Valjean gave a long thoughtful look at the house, and Javert held his breath, hoping the strange melancholy that sometimes came over Valjean would spare them both this time. If he but got the chance, he thought, he would drive all sadness from Valjean's body and mind, would overwhelm him with sensation so relentlessly that Valjean would not be able to think anymore... But then Valjean turned to him and smiled again, just a slight inviting tilt of his mouth, and Javert found himself able to breathe again. 

He took a step closer to Valjean, close enough to reach out and place both hands on his waist. Here, sheltered from the world by thick garden walls, he could do this. Leaning in so they were standing cheek to cheek, he breathed in the scent of Valjean's hair. 

"If you're still not tired," he murmured into his ear, "perhaps the exercise wasn't demanding enough? I should hate to think the National Guard are lowering their standards."

He slid both hands lower. "Perhaps something more strenuous is in order. It is not yet so late."

Valjean exhaled against his neck, tensing a little in Javert's grip. When he pulled back, he looked composed as ever, but a darkening of his eyes betrayed that he was well aware of Javert's game, and again there was a small smile playing about his mouth. "Did you have anything particular in mind?"

"Ah." Javert could not stop himself from smiling in turn, somewhat ruefully. How silly they were, the two of them! And yet, what a wonderful silliness it was; so dearly bought, these moments of laughter and foolish love-play for Valjean. 

And to think he himself had learned how to smile, he who had only ever smirked in grim satisfaction. Still he felt awkward doing it, well aware that joy was a strange look on him. But in this silly game he would indulge himself, and indulge Valjean, and have no care as to what anyone else would have thought, had they seen him now. 

"Perhaps you could lift something heavy," he said, "once we get inside."

"Perhaps I could," Valjean said with that same cool calmness, and Javert knew that no one but himself would have recognised the way his eyes glittered. He let his hands curve around Valjean's backside for a moment and thought again, _Mine_. Then he let him go, taking a step back. 

"Come then," he said, letting his eyes glide over Valjean's figure once more, not ashamed to revel in the way his uniform set off his shoulders, chest and waist. Perhaps he would make Valjean keep it on, he thought, a thrill of arousal going up his spine. It wouldn't be for the first time, after all.

Anticipation grew in him as he led the way into the shack. As soon as the door fell shut behind them, he crowded Valjean against it, one hand on his shoulder, the other one on his hip. Valjean met his gaze unflinchingly, though there was a slight flush on his cheekbones; he would often get flustered when Javert pursued him like this. As if he still found it hard to believe himself desirable, Javert thought with that same exasperated tenderness. He moved his hand from Valjean's hip towards his groin, feeling him half-hard under the fabric of his trousers. Valjean let out a small gasp; his eyelids fluttered. 

Javert licked his lips, liking the way Valjean's gaze darted to his mouth. "Now then," he said, his voice heavy and rough in his own ears. "Why don't you lift something?" 

Valjean gave him a long look. Then, before Javert knew it, their positions were reversed; he found himself hoisted up with his back to the door, Valjean pinning him in place, his strong arms under Javert's legs -- and Javert could not help but laugh, surprised and delighted at this playfulness that was unexpected even now. He wrapped his legs around Valjean's waist to take some of the strain off, cupped Valjean's face in his hands, and drew him into a long-awaited kiss. Valjean smiled against his mouth, and pressed closer, and Javert moaned, overwhelmed for a moment by his own happiness and even more by Valjean's. 

He ran his hands through Valjean's hair, feeling his own hard prick ache where it was trapped between their bodies and buried in layers of clothing. In his mind a thousand scenarios spilled forth, of everything he wanted to do with Valjean and have Valjean do with him, and it seemed to him a lifetime would not have been enough, for he could no more tire of wanting Valjean than he could tire of breathing. 

"Now then," Valjean muttered as they broke apart again, his breath hot against Javert's lips. "To where should I move you?" 

The bed seemed unbearably far away at the moment. He caught a glimpse of the table behind them, in the middle of the shack. It was sturdy and reliable: once Valjean had climbed onto it to mend a hole in the ceiling and Javert had helped him; it would support their combined weight. "The table," he said, nipping lightly at Valjean's lower lip. "And move yourself there too."

The corner of Valjean's mouth quirked upwards, he raised an eyebrow, and again that warm happiness flooded Javert, that joy at seeing Valjean untroubled and amused. He locked his legs and arms tighter around Valjean's waist and shoulders, as always awed by his strength and humbled by his gentleness, and sighed into his hair as Valjean carried him across the floor, giving himself over freely, knowing that Valjean would never let him fall. 

Valjean sat him down gently on the edge of the table. Javert spread his thighs in a silent request, and Valjean came to stand between his legs, not quite close enough but almost. He leaned in and brushed his lips over Javert's temple. "Tell me, then," he murmured in Javert's ear. "What is it you want?" 

"All of it," Javert murmured back, shivering with pleasure. "I thought you'd know by now."

Valjean did not reply, but the gaze he gave Javert -- tender, serious, thoughtful -- suggested he did know and yet did not believe, or perhaps could not let himself believe without hearing it over and over, how much he was wanted, how much he was _needed_. So Javert sought his mouth again, and ran his hands through Valjean's hair in reassurance, and then he slid down from the table so that they were standing pressed together, hardness to hardness and chest to chest. Valjean's right hand was on Javert's hip, and he caught it in his own and moved it down to where their groins touched, letting him feel for himself how hard they both were.

"All of it," he said again, voice low and intense. "For the rest of my life, as you know. But right now I want to see you under me in your uniform. I want to feel you inside me, looking all flushed and stunning." He kissed the corner of Valjean's mouth, loving the hitch in his breath. "Right here on this table. Do you object?" 

Valjean shook his head. His eyes looked somewhat glazed over, and Javert felt a new surge of heat rush through him at knowing that he had done that to Valjean, through his touch and through his words: that he could affect Valjean so, shake his patience and rouse his desires. 

He unbuttoned Valjean's uniform jacket with unsteady fingers, then made quick work of the shirt underneath. He ran his hand over warm skin and coarse hair, stroked Valjean's broad chest possessively as he leaned in to kiss his ear. "Get onto the table," he muttered.

They shifted places, and Valjean lay back on the table, watching Javert divesting himself of his clothing. He had meant to do it quickly and efficiently, but he had not counted on the effect of having Valjean's eyes on him, following his every move, making him feel special, wanted, all those things he wanted Valjean to feel as well. His face grew warm, and he had to look away as he pulled his shirt over his head, lest his heart should grow too large and choke him. For to be loved by such a man was as terrifying as it was wondrous, and every time the realisation of his own good fortune hit him anew, it was accompanied by a secret fear that all of his devotion and all of his love would never be enough, that he could never hope to undo even a fraction of the pain he and those like him had caused Valjean. 

He hung up his shirt, cravat, and waistcoat over a chair, pausing as he turned back towards the table. Valjean's gaze was still on him, warm, tender, heated; there was not a shade of doubt in it, and again Javert could do nothing but bow to this gift, accept it with trembling hands and a gratitude that could and should be expressed by passion only. If the past could never be undone, the least he could do was to try for a better future; he would try and try until there was nothing Valjean could wish for that Javert hadn't striven to give him, no part of Valjean's magnificent body that hadn't known his touch. 

When he was fully naked, he stood for a moment at the end of a table, feeling like a gourmand at the most sumptuous feast imaginable. He ran his legs up Valjean's legs, muscular calves still covered in high black boots, and a shiver ran through him at the way Valjean's eyelids quivered when Javert bent down to mouth at the leather of the boot shaft, and at the the way the bulge in Valjean's trousers stirred and grew. 

He pushed Valjean's legs wider, leaning in to trace that bulge with his lips and tongue, savouring the shaky moan his ministrations earned him. He kept mouthing at Valjean's cock through the fabric, teasing at it until Valjean was writhing under him, making overwhelmed little noises that almost sounded like he was in torment -- as if the pleasure Javert was giving him was a burden he did not know how to handle, this man who had carried so many burdens before. 

Tenderness welled up in him at the thought, familiar by now but still so very strange and humbling in its power. He paused for a moment, resting his head on Valjean's thigh and breathing deeply. When he looked up, Valjean had propped himself up on his elbows and was watching him. Their eyes met and Valjean smiled. His cheeks were red and his hair mussed; he was breathtaking. 

"Touch yourself," Javert said. The words came to him on an impulse, but even as he said them he felt his heart flutter a little more. Quickly he undid Valjean's trousers, freeing his straining cock. "For me. Now."

Valjean flushed harder, but he did not hesitate, nor did he look away: holding Javert's gaze, he took himself in hand, running his fingers along the shaft, his thumb sweeping over the swollen head. Javert's breath escaped him in a hiss at the sight; he could not resist putting a hand on his own cock, rubbing it in turn. 

"It's good, isn't it?" he muttered through his teeth. "God, watching you do that... Look how you're flushing. Is that because of my eyes on you? I won't stop looking." He was only vaguely aware of what he was saying, all of his attention on Valjean, who was trembling now, arching into his own fist with poorly-hidden need. "Just think of how much better it will feel to be inside me."

"Please," Valjean ground out, and to hear the tone of desperation in his voice was almost too much -- better to get on with things, Javert thought hazily, before either of them spilled himself like an overeager youth. 

He took a step back, again putting both hands back on Valjean's calves, stroking the leather and imagining the muscle underneath. Valjean bit his lip, obviously trembling with unwelcome impatience, and Javert thought of how much he loved that impatience, the proof of Valjean's desire for him. 

"Tell me," he said, surprising even himself. "Tell me how much you want me."

Valjean closed his eyes, swallowing visibly. "Javert..."

"Say it. I'm waiting." How silly it might be to demand such a thing when Valjean's desire was obvious enough. On the other hand, why shouldn't this desire be expressed in words? He wanted to hear it aloud, both Valjean's desire for him and Valjean's willingness to admit it, to allow himself such wishes. Keeping his hands still on Valjean's legs, he waited. "Say it."

Another visible swallow, and then Valjean looked him in the eye. "Javert," he said. "I want you more than you can possibly know -- please."

The word went straight through him, making him shiver with an impatience that could match Valjean's and then some. He kissed the inside of his thigh, torment and reward both, then left him there with a strict order not to move as he went to fetch the oil. 

When he came back, he took a moment to admire the sight of Valjean spread out before him, still clad in his uniform except for where his shirt gaped open and where his trousers were unfastened to reveal his large and gleaming cock. He looked deliciously debauched, even more so with the way he had been biting his lip to keep from moaning. Javert intensely wanted to kiss him, to feel those lips against his own, and because he wanted it so much, he refrained. 

Soon, he thought, soon. First there would be that intense pleasure of having Valjean inside him, writhing under him as Javert rode him towards completion. The thought caused his hands to tremble so much he had difficulty opening the little jar of oil. 

Quickly he slicked and opened himself, then climbed onto the table, Valjean watching him with eyes that Javert recognised as hungry, though this man who had been starved in so many ways was still loath to ask for Javert's touch unless Javert made him. But it was no disgrace, he thought dizzily as he positioned himself, half-mad with lust at the sensation of Valjean's rock-hard prick against his hole -- it was no disgrace at all, but only right and proper that Valjean should claim what was rightfully his, namely pleasure and love and all the happiness Javert was able to give him.

He sank down, inch by inch, on Valjean's cock, his muscles straining with the effort of keeping himself up, of going slowly enough to savour the long hot slide of Valjean's hard flesh inside him, of feeling himself open and welcoming. He flexed his thighs, sparks of pleasure shooting up his spine as he sank further down. Valjean let out a long, low groan, his hands gripping Javert's knees. 

"Look at me," Javert said softly. Valjean opened his eyes, heavy-lidded and dark with pleasure, and Javert had to bite back a moan himself, knowing he had been the one to put that pleasure there. "Look," he said again, moving his hips a little, "look how easily I take you, how well you fill me..." 

"Javert," Valjean gasped, hips bucking upwards as if on their own accord, and Javert would have been hard pressed to say which was sweeter: the sound of his name spoken in such tones, or the feeling of Valjean's hard length inside him, hitting against that spot which never failed to take his breath away. 

This time he did not hold back his moan, but let it out through clenched teeth as he bucked his hips, aiming for that spot again, those sparks of raw pleasure. Valjean's hands moved to Javert's thighs, their touch firm, reassuring rather than commanding -- not that Javert would have needed any form of command to keep doing this, his hazy mind told him as he ruthlessly sank down, again and again, on Valjean's straining cock. This was his, this was _theirs_ , and he would take it as long as he was permitted, as long as it brought Valjean pleasure the way it did him. 

He rolled his hips, riding him relentlessly, with slow firm motions, determined to wring out every bit of pleasure Valjean's body was capable of and then some. But he was no saint, no, he could not escape the selfishness of his own desire, that possessive urge in his soul that relished in feeling Valjean hard and desperate within him, in seeing him laid out like this beneath Javert, all offered up for his gaze and his touch. 

He would have Valjean like this again, he knew, taking himself in hand and stroking in time with his movements; he would have him like this again, and in other ways, on the table or in bed or against the wall or on the floor; he wanted anything Valjean would give him; any form of Valjean's pleasure would be Javert's as well; there was nothing Valjean could want that Javert wouldn't delight in giving to him. 

He told Valjean as much, babbling his devotion in between gasps for air, and Valjean held him fixed with that same dark gaze, so full of dazed tenderness Javert had not earned but which was freely given, and all the more astonishing for it, even as he arched upwards to meet Javert's every move. "If you keep on talking like that," he choked in between thrusts, "if you keep telling me those things, Javert, I won't last long -- it's too much --"

"Then don't," Javert ordered, grinding down on him even more fiercely. He was close, so close, but he wanted Valjean's pleasure more than his own, and he wanted that triumphant joy of making him come undone. "Don't hold back, just let go, come inside me like you want to..."

Valjean threw his head back, a great shudder going through him, his hands clutching at Javert's thighs as he did as he was told, thrusting up and into Javert with abandon, letting go at last. And at the sight and the feeling Javert could not hold back either; with a final trust downwards he spent himself helplessly all over Valjean's stomach and his own fist, relishing still the feeling of Valjean's softening prick inside him, and of Valjean spread before him, overwhelmed and overcome. 

He came to his senses at last, slumped and panting, Valjean looking up at him with tenderness, his warm hands spanning Javert's hips. He did not look presentable in the least, with his shirt open and his uniform rumpled, and Javert's seed spilled all over his stomach -- marking him, Javert thought with a shudder of residual lust. He shifted himself off Valjean and climbed off the table, not without regret, but the choice of place had not been made with a forethought for the state he was in now, when he was sated and tired in body and soul, wanting nothing more than to rest in Valjean's arms and share his heat. 

First of all, he found a cloth and cleaned Valjean's stomach and his own hands meticulously. Then he took a step back, admiring Valjean's sprawling form once more. 

"Come down from the table," he said after a moment. "You must be sore by now."

"Not as sore as you," Valjean said, then flushed again. His eyes met Javert's; after a second they both smiled in embarrassed relief.

Valjean sat up, and Javert went to stand between his legs, as he had earlier. He was still naked and Valjean was still wearing his uniform, however disordered, but that did not matter. "Let's bathe," he said, leaning in to brush a kiss to Valjean's cheek. "You brought in water earlier, didn't you?" 

Valjean took his face between his hands, holding him still while looking into his eyes. The wonder and affection in his gaze was almost too much for Javert to bear; and yet he held still, unable to deny Valjean this quiet moment, allowing himself to be inspected with that astonishing tenderness. 

"I'd die for you in a heartbeat," he said, for no other reason than that this was how he felt, now and all days, and earnestness still came easier to him than anything else. "But since I know you'd prefer me to live, I shall, happily -- we both shall."

Valjean didn't reply in so many words, but the light touch of his thumbs against Javert's cheekbones and the caress of his lips when he finally brought their mouths together, said it all, and Javert closed his eyes, gave himself over, his body bared and his heart naked but stronger than ever, fierce and true from the gift Valjean had given him.


End file.
